


Discretion Guaranteed: A Chambers and Holloway Mystery

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: 1970's AU, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Private Investigators Dawn Chambers and Joan Holloway catch their biggest case yet when a routine infidelity investigation goes awry and they have to solve the mystery of who shot Don Draper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I know about private detectives I learned from Veronica Mars. Let that be your warning or your enticement.

 

 

If they were in a movie the parking lot would have been lit only by the glowing neon of the hotel’s no vacancy sign. They would be sitting under a clear black sky, or possibly one that was drizzling rain; the headlights from passing cars reflecting off of the wet windshield. The man they were watching would of course be tall, dark and handsome. He would smoke cigars and his suit would be impeccable.

In reality Dawn and Joan were parked behind a dumpster. There was a streetlight overhead that kept flickering off and on in an annoying way. The day had been smoggy and the trash smelled, but they had rolled the windows down all the same. It was too hot not to. Their target - Clyde Werner - was a nondescript bald man who wore old fashioned glasses. Dawn had watched him go into the hotel. He’d been sweating through the back of his shirt.

Joan was on her second cup of coffee and Dawn was working her way through a bag of chips. There wasn’t much to do on stakeouts.

At least it was suitably late at night.

There were no telling silhouettes showing in Werner’s window. Only some very ugly drapes.

Dawn popped another chip in her mouth. She wished someone would stand up. Turn on a light. Look out in a convenient direction.

Joan sighed impatiently and Dawn thought she was going to complain about the bag crinkling and making noise. Instead she held out her hand.

“Give me one of those.”

Dawn tried to hide her grin. Joan was on a diet; she went on and off them and it never made any real difference as far as Dawn could tell.

“Here,” she said, and generously handed over the whole bag.

“He better not be asleep,” Joan said, between bites. “I don’t want to be here until morning.”

“He won’t be asleep,” said Dawn. “They pick better hotels when they want to pretend it’s a romance.”

Joan stared at her. She looked back at the building, taking in the peeling paint and smudged windows. It was dismal. “That’s… very true, actually. Excellent point.”

Dawn shrugged, but allowed herself to preen internally. Joan didn’t give easy compliments. “I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

The door opened. It was Werner and his mistress, a short woman with big hair and very high heels. She was also his secretary, for maximum predictability.

She was quite dressed up for their rendezvous. Those skyscraper shoes, a shimmery blouse contrasting with a tight skirt, carefully lined eyes and brightened lips. Her gentleman friend hadn’t bothered to tuck his shirt in.

Dawn tried to imagine it, primping, doing her hair and her nails and her face - for this, _this_ ; a sweaty middle-manager who was going to go home to his wife smelling of another woman’s perfume. What did anyone get out of it?

“Do you think she makes him feel young?” murmured Joan, and raised the camera.

 

 

Dawn didn’t go home after she dropped Joan off. She drove to her favorite diner, where the coffee was fresh even at two in the morning. After a long night she couldn’t go to sleep right away. It was watch television with the cat or go somewhere and let the energy buzzing under her skin dissipate.

There were two other customers, an old lady in one of the booths and a man slouched at the counter. They both had their heads bowed low over their food, like they were praying under the harsh fluorescent light, and neither looked up when she came in. The man had dark, curly hair that was frizzing slightly from the humidity.

Dawn went to the counter. The waitress was wiping it down with long swipes of a dishcloth, her glasses slipping down her nose as she did. She wore the expression of someone who had been on her feet for far too long. Dawn took pity on her when she picked up a menu and stepped towards the rows of empty booths by the window.

“I can stay here, it’s no trouble.” She put her purse down on the aged vinyl and accepted a menu. “Can I get a coffee to start?”

“I dunno how you can drink that stuff, the weather being like it is.”

“Sorry?” Dawn shut the menu and glanced over. Her neighbor wasn’t eating, she realised upon closer inspection. His plate was scraped clean and pushed aside. There was a large legal pad in front of him that was packed with writing and had doodles in the margins. By his elbow lay a file folder; she thought she could see a couple of drawings poking out, all thick lines and flat colors.

“The coffee,” he said. He was young and shabbily dressed with a sad cast to his eyes and mouth. Struggling artist type, thought Dawn, because she was starting to make snap judgements about people like that now. They were often accurate, and not always kind. It came from the job, from being able to size people up quickly so she could tell if they were lying to her or not. Joan was better at it but Dawn was learning.

“It’s like a furnace out there,” he continued, “even at midnight. So coffee’s no good - nothing is unless it’s cold, I’d live off popsicles if I could do it without getting malnourished. I’m starting to dream of icebergs. Think they got real estate in the Arctic Circle?”

“You’d get sick of it,” said Dawn with a small smile. “All those blizzards with no change of scenery. And it’s about two-fifteen in the morning.”

“Shit, seriously?” he said, and checked his watch. He gave it shake but the hands were stuck at the wrong time. “Fucking broken thing. Hey, Terry, how long have I been here?”

“Too long,” said the waitress. “Go home.”

“Maybe I won’t tip you now,” he said in indignation. She disappeared into the kitchen with a roll of her eyes, after which he turned to Dawn. “I’m still going to tip, don’t worry.”

The overhead fan turned sluggishly above them but all it did was move warm air around. It was so muggy. Dawn tugged the neckline of her dress away from her chest - it was sticking to her skin. A snowstorm seemed mighty attractive right now, or a cold shower. And he was right about the coffee.

“How’s the lemonade?” she asked, opening her menu again.

“I can recommend it.”

Dawn ordered some, along with a sandwich. She sighed with relief when Terry brought her the drink, packed with ice, and swallowed a big mouthful. It tasted fantastic, tart and only a little bit sweet.

“Not bad, huh?”

Dawn wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It wasn’t the most ladylike gesture she had ever made but she didn’t care. She felt odd these days, restless and bottled up and unmoored all at once. Shirley thought it was her job. “You run around with that crazy white lady, and _you_ get crazy,” she had said the other night on the phone. But that wasn’t it. Joan was steady as a rock.

The problem was an empty apartment and ongoing arguments with her mother about who she ought to have in it. It was about looking forward to work a little _too_ much, because it was unpredictable and unpredictable was exciting. It was the summer, yes, endless and overwhelming enough to bring on a kind of belated spring fever. Heat waves made everyone act funny.

“It’s good,” Dawn said. “Thanks. What is it you’re doing there?”

“Working,” he said. “My roommate’s having a party, I couldn’t get anything done.”

“You’d rather work than be at the party?”

She expected him to say something about tough deadlines or striking while the iron was hot, but instead he laughed and shook his head. “Me?” he said, his smile a sardonic twist of his lips. “I’m the _life_ of the party. They had to kick me out so people could focus on something else. My charm is just that overwhelming.”

“You can’t be that bad,” Dawn said. “You tip the waitress. I like you well enough and I don’t even know you.”

There was something very tentative in the way he looked at her after she said that; he smiled again, slowly, but this time it was genuine. He had a soft, open kind of face. And was that a flush from the heat or was he blushing?

Oh, no.

“It’s very late,” he said, and ducked his head. “Your judgement is compromised.”

What the hell, Dawn thought, and extended her hand. “I’m Dawn.”

“The name’s Ginsberg,” he said, so seriously that it made her want to smile. He squeezed her hand lightly. “I’d ask what a nice girl like you is doing in a place like this but I think that line’s gone way past its expiry date.”

“I was also working. Up until thirty minutes ago.”

“What is it that you do?”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Now you gotta tell me. I’m dying to know.”

“Maybe I want you to guess.”

He swiveled on the stool to face her. “Okay,” he said, solemnly. Suddenly he was very still, a faraway look creeping into his eyes. She got the feeling it wasn’t her he was looking at, exactly, and it went on for so long that she began to think she had made a mistake. He was going to say something terrible -

“Ballerina,” he said.

She laughed, startled. “ _What_.”

“You move very gracefully,” he said and gestured at the door. “I saw that when you came in.”

“I don’t know about that.” Did she? She pressed her toes against the floor, imagining being on stage. It was a stretch. All those people staring at her.

She hadn’t noticed him watching, either. Sneaky.

“Am I right? Do I win something if I am?”

“Sorry, no prize here. I’m not a ballerina.”

“But I bet you could’ve been if you had wanted to,” he said, and followed it up with a look so admiring that she went warm all over.

It rolled across her, her cheeks and arms and the hollow of her throat. Not the weather, this time, but rising up from inside. It felt - it felt _good_ , a shivery, stomach-clenching excitement she’d missed without noticing its absence.

“If you say so,” she said, stealing a little sideways glance at him. He caught her at it and grinned, the bastard.

“I can keep going, if you want me to. I’ve got all sorts of other ideas.”

“I’ll spare you,” she said. “I’m a private detective - see, you already don’t believe me.”

“I never said I didn’t. I’m just surprised, is all.” He paused to give her a considering look. “Is this a joke? Am I falling for a joke?”

She rummaged through her purse, pushing aside lipsticks and loose change until she found what she was looking for. “I have proof,” she said and passed him a white business card, printed with blocky black letters.

He frowned at it. “I thought you said your name was Dawn.”

Oh, right. “It is. That’s my boss. I don’t have my own cards, yet.”

“What’s it like?”

She told him all about it while she ate her sandwich. How she got hired by Joan to do her filing and appointments but Joan saw something else in her; they had a woman come in two times a week to help out now. The long, erratic hours, the scummy motel parking lots. How it involved more digging through garbage than she ever could have anticipated.

“A lot of cheating husbands,” she grimaced. “Their wives probably make up the bulk of our business. That and bail jumpers.”

“So, no Maltese Falcons, huh?”

“No,” she said drily. “Though I hold out hope.”

“How do you deal with it?” he asked. “Giving people bad news all the time.”

“I try to be careful,” she said. “And to listen to them.”

“That’s amazing,” he said, “I don’t think I could handle it.”

When she had walked in the door he had been hunched over his work, stiff-backed and lost in his own little world. Now he had forgotten it; he sat loosely on his stool, relaxed. The first few buttons of his threadbare shirt were undone and he had the sleeves rolled up. She had an unexpected and intense urge to find out what he looked like under it. There was the possibility of some good shoulders there. She wondered what it would be like to reach out and touch his collarbones.

She could take him home. She could and nobody could stop her. They could go back to her apartment and put on some music. Have a drink. Do whatever they wanted. There was nothing standing in her way.

Except, of course, herself.

Only a couple of hours before she had watched a little quick n’ easy play out. With nauseating clarity the memory unspooled itself - the secretary in her tight clothes, a hand on her behind and more of the same in her future.

That wasn’t what Dawn wanted.

Still, she thought wistfully. It would have been nice to do something really out of character. Just once.

“You’d be amazed at what you can handle,” she said. “But I won’t claim there isn’t a downside. You see a lot of ugliness when you’re doing this job. No one gets a happy ending.”

“My Pop says that there’s no such thing as an ending until you’re dead,” he said. “It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.”

“That’s very hopeful.”

“‘Course, I don’t listen to him ever.”

“My mother would say the exact same thing about me,” said Dawn, and pushed her plate aside. Her energy from earlier was fading and she was starting to wind down. That was always the way - it was a rush, but a crash inevitably followed. She almost asked him for the time but remembered that his watch was broken; her own informed her that they had been talking nearly an hour. She stifled a yawn.

“You look about ready to turn in,” he said.

“I am,” she replied, and with no small amount of regret. She had been enjoying herself very much. “But it’s been fun. Thank you. And you should probably go home before your roommate thinks you got kidnapped.”

“Yeah,” he said. He passed his hand over his hair in a sheepish gesture and seemed to be gearing himself up for something. “Uh -”

“Yes?” she asked, hopefully.

“Nothing, nevermind. Sweet dreams, that’s all I was gonna say.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, you too. Have a nice night, Ginsberg.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. He was smiling, but the sadness that she had detected earlier was back in spite of it. “I already did.”

 

 

Megan Calvet looked like a movie star, which made sense considering she was on the television five days a week. She arrived at the office in big sunglasses and with her dark, sleek hair pulled back in a ponytail. It didn’t disguise her any. Joan knew who she was right away and behaved accordingly, offering refreshments and bringing cups of coffee out on a shiny silver tray.

Dawn pretended she didn’t know who she was looking at, while also stealing curious glances out of the corner of her eye . She couldn’t help it, she had never met a celebrity before.

“Do you take sugar, Ms.Calvet?” Joan asked, picking up a spoon.

“Yes, thank you. And call me Megan.”

“Here you go,” said Joan, and passed Megan a mug before sitting down behind her desk with her legs crossed and her professional listening face on.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Megan asked. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair after Joan nodded in affirmation and put a cigarette between her lips. There was no makeup on her wide eyes and they were a little bit red. Dawn had seen her on television before and occasionally in the paper; she had always been very dressed up and glamourous. Not bare-faced and young and scared, trying to light a cigarette with trembling fingers.

“How can we help you?” Joan asked.

“It’s - I feel so stupid, even asking.”

“Don’t,” said Dawn. “Trust me that we have seen _everything_.”

Megan smiled tentatively. “Thanks. I wish I could say this was different, but it isn’t. It’s such a cliché that I’m embarrassed.” She took a deep breath and another drag on her smoke. “I think my husband is cheating on me. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.”

“Not from you, we haven’t,” Joan said, and somehow that was exactly what Megan needed to hear. Dawn could see her relax visibly.

“I’ve tried to confront him,” she said. “I have. I want to - and I just can’t. I keep thinking, I’ll do it at a better time. There never is a better time. I’ve even thought about leaving. And I can’t manage that either. My husband is - he’s _very_ convincing. Every time we have an argument I end up getting talked around. He makes me feel like I’m crazy for even suspecting him. I need proof. Once I have that…” She rubbed at her wet eyes with the heel of her hand. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll have evidence that this isn’t all in my head.”

“I understand it’s difficult,” said Joan. “Take a minute if you need to.”

“No, I’m fine.” Megan accepted a tissue but she was done with tears. There was a bit of steel in her upright posture and firmed jaw. “I’m getting somewhere for the first time. Should we discuss rates?”

“Eventually,” said Joan. She flipped open a notebook and picked up her favorite pen - it was silver and engraved with her initials. Lane had given it to her. “But we’ll start with his name.”

 

 

“You know this could be big,” Joan said after she shut the door on Megan’s retreating back.

“A prominent client?” said Dawn. “Of course.” The agency was strictly small time. But if they did good enough work, if Megan recommended them to a few friends… word of mouth could count for a lot, in their business.

“We’ve handled cases like this a million times before,” said Joan. She put some paper in her typewriter and sat down. “Remember that, and don’t get nervous.”

“I’m not,” said Dawn. It was a bit of a thrill. A television star, imagine that. Maybe they’d get to go undercover at some swanky industry party.

Okay, that was a little silly. She forced her head out of the clouds. “You want me to read out your notes?” Joan always started a preliminary case file directly after the first meeting with a client. Her record keeping was meticulous.

“Yes,” said Joan. She wiped her reading glasses clean with a tissue and pushed them up her nose. “Basic facts about Mr. Draper, please.”

“He’s in his mid-forties, works as a copywriter at Sterling Cooper and Partners on Madison Ave. He heads up the Creative department there, and has been doing so for over a decade now.” Dawn paused. “Probably the secretary, right?”

“We don’t know that yet,” said Joan. Her fingers flew across the keys. “No speculation. Keep going, now.”

“He and Megan have been married for five years,” said Dawn. “They met when she was working at Sterling Cooper as well, as Draper’s _secretary_.” She gave Joan a very pointed look. “And Megan left less than a year after they got married to pursue her acting career.”

“How long has she been on that show of hers?”

“For two years. Don Draper has three children from a previous marriage: Sally, Bobby and Gene. Sally’s the oldest, she’s eighteen.”

“Nigel’s age,” muttered Joan. The corners of her mouth quirked up. “He’s been asking about you. Wants to know if we’ll have you over for dinner.”

“Thanks,” said Dawn flatly. “His ex-wife - Mr. Draper, obviously, not Nigel - is named Betty Francis. She’s married to Henry Francis, who ran for office last year and lost. No other known relatives - Megan says his parents are dead, and she never heard anything about any brothers or sisters. She gave us the address of both his workplace and their apartment.”

“Any suspects for the alleged affair?”

“He works closely with another copywriter on his team, Peggy Olson. There used to be rumours about them floating around the office, apparently. Aside from that: acquaintances both in their neighborhood and at work, female clients, Megan even wondered about a few of her friends.” Dawn winced. “That’s got to hurt.”

“That poor girl. Anything else?”

“He looks like this.” Dawn held up the photograph Megan had provided. Don Draper was dark haired, square jawed and old-fashioned. He looked like a cigarette ad from ten years ago. Handsome, but gone slightly to seed.

“Reminds me of the men I used to go out with in the early sixties,” said Joan. “The kind who always sent flowers but couldn’t remember what my last name was.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Joan shrugged, noncommittally. A sly smile stole across her face. “I was never without roses, though.”

Dawn checked her watch. They could make it downtown by noon, if they left right away. “Do you want to get started on this, or do you want to go for lunch?”

Joan got her purse from her desk drawer and stood up. “No reason we can’t do both.”

 

 

They didn’t expect much from the first day. Joan wanted to get the lay of the land, get a feel for what his schedule was like. They didn’t expect to actually _see_ him.

But see him they did, coming out of the Time Life building with a woman. She was younger than him, somewhere around Megan’s age. She had brown hair styled in an unfussy way and was wearing a dress that looked a bit too expensive for a secretary. They rounded the corner and headed north; Joan and Dawn followed at a reasonable distance.

Draper and his companion entered a diner so Dawn pulled over and plugged a few coins into the meter. She and Joan snagged a booth close enough to overhear any pertinent conversations but far enough away that their object wouldn’t be obvious.

Their talk focused on work. Don called the woman ‘Peggy’ at one point, which confirmed Dawn’s suspicions about her identity.

If they were sleeping together they didn’t act like it. That or the infatuation had worn off; their discussion was a borderline argument about how someone named Pete kept stepping on Peggy’s toes.

“I don’t understand why you can’t say something to him,” Peggy said. She put her fork down on her plate - she hadn’t eaten much and didn’t seem interested.

“He doesn’t work for me,” Don said. “I don’t know what it is you expect me to do.”

“And I don’t work for _him_ ,” Peggy snapped, “but that never stops him from ordering me around. Ken never pulled this shit.”

“Then tell him that. It sounds the same coming from you as it would from me.”

Peggy laughed. “Are you serious? No it doesn’t, Don. He might actually listen to you.”

“He’s only going to do the same thing next time. You have to learn to ignore him.”

“We aren’t in grade school, and he’s not pushing me on the playground.”

“Sometimes it seems like it,” Don said, dryly.

He was smiling and it was clearly meant to be a joke, but Peggy didn’t take it that way. She looked at him silently for a long time with two bright spots of color in her cheeks. And then she turned her face away, her features heavy with disappointment. “I don’t know what I expected.”

“Peggy -”

“Forget about it,” she muttered. “Finish your lunch. We have to get back.”

They were gone before Dawn and Joan even got their meals. The service was slow, bogged down by some kind of confusion in the kitchen.

“Should we go after them?” Dawn asked.

“No,” said Joan, and sipped her tea in an unconcerned way. “We got eyes on Peggy Olson, that’s enough for now.”

“Good,” said Dawn. “I’m hungry, I didn’t want to run out on the food.”

“I’ll need you to tail him as much as you can for the next week,” said Joan. “I’m still working that case with the missing widow so I’ll be busy - you can handle it, right?”

“Of course,” said Dawn. She tried not to let on how excited she was. Joan had never let her take the lead on a case before. “I’m a professional, aren’t I?”

 

 

The first couple of days shadowing Don Draper were much the same. He left the office for drinks or a movie occasionally, usually alone. He went back to the diner with Peggy once, so apparently their fight was over or it was their natural state. He worked late, which meant Dawn had to stay parked in the street well into the night. And when he went home -

\- he just went home, that was all. No stopping by a girlfriend’s apartment building. No mysterious women arriving at his door at odd hours.

She thought about trying to get a look inside the office, but that would be awfully reckless. And might not even benefit her.

On the third day she was slouched back against her seat with the windows rolled down, praying for a breeze, when Don stepped outside and waved down a taxi. He wasn’t alone.

Dawn sat straight up. She knew the man who was with him.

Ginsberg looked as overheated as she felt, though from the way he and Don were arguing the source of his frustration was completely different. His work clothes were every bit as ugly as his casual wear. No, uglier. The knot of his tie was half undone and he moved his hands around a lot while he shouted. The folder he was holding almost went flying a couple of times.

Parked down the street like she was Dawn couldn’t make out what they were saying. It had to do with a client meeting, she could tell that much. Even as she strained to hear she was grateful she hadn’t come any closer - it could sink the case if Ginsberg noticed her.

The cab driver leaned out of the car to join the conversation and Ginsberg looked at him. Don took the opportunity to steal the folder away and pointed back towards the building in a sharp, final gesture. With one last insult - a curse word, Dawn _could_ hear that one - Ginsberg turned on his heel and slammed back through the doors.

Don unbuttoned his jacket and straightened his hat. He and the cabbie spoke briefly before he got in, and they pulled away from the curb.

After a minute, so did Dawn.

 

 

She didn’t tell Joan about it.

She ought to have; she had enough sense to know that. Yet it didn’t seem relevant to the case. Dawn and Ginsberg having one conversation via the magic of coincidence didn’t have anything to do with Don cheating on his wife. And it had been - nice. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed the company of an attractive man just because she could.

She would tell Joan if it became necessary. But not before; Dawn was allowed her own life, same as everyone else.

Don didn’t do anything interesting after the fight. He had gone to the meeting, to a bar following that, and visited a liquor store before heading home. He sure did drink a lot.

On Thursday night Dawn caught her first real break.

It was late and dark and she was yawning her head off outside Don’s apartment building. Megan wasn’t home. She left in a long gold dress and an elaborate updo. Not the outfit of a woman who was planning on an early night. It was the perfect time for Don to step out, and step out he did.

His girlfriend wasn’t what Dawn would have expected.

They were younger, usually. A little starry-eyed or just flashier than the wife. Someone who made him feel important.

This woman was about the same age as Don. Her short black hair was cut into a bob that was a bit out of date; her clothes were nice but very much the uniform of wealthy middle-aged Park Avenue types.

Megan had just gone past looking like she came off the cover of a magazine. Dawn didn’t get it.

They got into a cab and Dawn tailed them as they cut down back alleys and side streets. The entire journey seemed like it was made of shortcuts and they left the glassy condominiums and chic boutiques of Don’s neighborhood far behind. The buildings started getting shabby - busted out windows and boarded up storefronts. There was garbage in the gutters, blown there by the dry summer wind. Nobody was going to pick it up here. Dawn could see people sleeping in doorways as she drove by.

What on earth were they doing? Don worked on Madison Avenue, for goodness sake. This wasn’t his world.

They came to a stop at the mouth of an alley. The cab idled as Don and his lady exited; so did Dawn, far enough away that she could take some pictures without being noticed.

Don, head inclined towards her as they walked down the alleyway towards a door with a glowing exit sign above it. Don with his hand on the small of her back. They leaned closer - but, nope. No kiss. Instead a man came out of the door and interrupted their tête-à-tête. He lit a cigarette and the light flared against his face. He had graying hair and thick, dark eyebrows. Dawn took a picture of him, too.

They exchanged a few words. The newcomer punctuated the ends of his sentences with a jab of his cigarette, and Dawn couldn’t tell if he was angry or making a bit of it. He held out his hand; Don reached inside his jacket and handed the man a small envelope. That quieted him, though he fired off some parting rejoinder. Then he went back inside and Don and the woman returned to the cab.

It was so odd. She didn’t know what to make of it; this wasn’t like any affair she had ever seen. If it _was_ an affair - she couldn’t tell anymore.

They didn’t go to a hotel afterwards as she hoped. No, instead they stopped in midtown at a restaurant and ate a quick meal. Dawn snapped pictures of them going in together, but she wasn’t sure if it mattered. Not exactly conclusive evidence.

Worst of all, when they came out they got into separate cabs. Don headed home. His friend didn’t.

Dawn parked down the street from Don’s building. She drummed her fingers on the dashboard, frustrated. It could have gone worse, certainly. It also could have gone better.

The doorman was not the same one as before. He was older and not so quick on the draw, fumbling a woman’s packages as he helped her in with them and taking frequent cigarette breaks.

It gave Dawn an idea.

She took out her wallet - a cheap one that needed replacing anyway - and stripped it off all identifying information. Her pictures, ID and license went into the glove compartment. She put her money in the pocket of her skirt except for a few dollars she left in there for show, along with an expired coupon for coffee and a YWCA membership she never used. Then she slid to the edge of her seat, checking that he wasn’t looking, and opened the car door.

He was smoking again. She walked up to him with a bright smile.

“Hi there,” she said, “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Directions?”

“No,” said Dawn, and held the wallet up. “I drive a taxi - it’s just around the corner.” She waved in an unclear direction. “I picked up a woman from this building earlier tonight and she left this in my cab. I went back to the restaurant I dropped her off at but she wasn’t there anymore. Pretty lady, short dark hair? In her late forties? Sound familiar?”

“Could be lots of people.”

Dawn tried to remember more details. “She had a red dress on, and her handbag was a big one. Leopard print all over except the straps were leather.”

He perked up. “That sounds like Sylvia Rosen. She’s had that thing for years, it’s like a suitcase. You want me to give that to her?”

“Sure thing,” said Dawn. “You really helped me out, thanks.”

She didn’t mind sacrificing the wallet; she had something better. A name.

 

 

She dropped the film off to be developed that night and picked it up in the morning before work. Joan flipped through the pictures while sitting on the edge of Dawn’s desk. She was frowning slightly, a line appearing between her eyebrows.

“I know they’re not great,” said Dawn. “I couldn’t catch them in the act.”

“That’s not it,” said Joan. “These are absolutely fine. I’m just wondering,” she plucked one photograph from the pile, “what the hell they were doing down at Jimmy Barrett’s place.”

It was the man with the sharp face and the hair half-gone silver.

“Don gave him an envelope,” said Dawn. “But how do you know who he is?”

“Gambling, prostitution, you name it and Jimmy Barrett’s got a hand in it.”

“Joan, what exactly are you _doing_ on the weekends?”

“Very funny. You know my ex-husband was a cop. Did you get anything else?”

“Her name,” said Dawn. “Well, maybe. Sylvia Rosen. Could help if Megan doesn’t recognize her.”

Joan tapped her on the shoulder with her handful of pictures. “You did good. This may be all she wants. You never know, clients can surprise you.”

 

 

Dawn took an extra long lunch that day with Joan’s permission. Val’s baby shower was in less than a month, so she divided her time between Sears and Macy’s. She left with a cute yellow onesie and a striped hat, because all babies should have hats as far as Dawn was concerned.

When she got back to the office Joan was sitting behind her desk, the telephone at her ear. She was in the midst of finishing the conversation; Dawn heard her say goodbye.

“Did you call Megan?” asked Dawn, dropping her bags onto her chair. “Does she want to see the pictures?”

“That was Megan,” said Joan. “But we won’t be giving her the pictures.”

“ _What_ ,” asked Dawn, “why not?”

Joan was as serious as she had ever been; she meant it. Her lunch was untouched. She hadn’t even unwrapped the sandwich.

“What’s wrong? Something’s happened.” Dawn crossed the room and stood in front of Joan’s desk, fighting the urge to fidget to alleviate her nerves. “Did I make a mistake?”

“Not at all,” said Joan. “Megan was calling from the hospital. Someone shot Don Draper this morning.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can hope is that this makes some kind of sense.

 

 

They met Megan in the corridor outside Don’s room. From the corner of her eye Dawn could see his bed; white sheets and steel railings and beeping machines everywhere. It made her queasy and she looked away, afraid that there would be blood. She wasn’t good with blood.

“How’s he doing?” she asked Megan, who slumped back against the wall with a shaky sigh.

She was in jeans and a loose white blouse. Her face was freshly scrubbed and her hair pinned in an unattractive way around her head, close to the scalp - she wore wigs on her soap, Dawn remembered. She must have come to the hospital straight from work. The shoes she was wearing were far too dressy for her outfit; sequined platform costume heels. Back on the set there would be a dress that matched them perfectly. The area around her eyes was so puffy and red that Dawn’s own skin itched from looking at her.

“He’s doing okay,” said Megan. “It got him right here,” she pressed a palm against her chest, off centre and below the left shoulder. “The doctors say he was lucky. No major damage to any organs and he came through the surgery fine. But he lost a lot of blood. He walked all the way back up to our apartment and called an ambulance. I don’t know why he didn’t ask one of the neighbors for help.”

Joan put a comforting hand on Megan’s arm. “It happened at home?”

“Outside the building. He got mugged. That’s what he told the police. It’s such a nice neighborhood, I never thought - and he was supposed to be at work.”

“I suppose it must have all happened very fast.”

“He can’t remember the details.” Megan fumbled for a tissue in her purse and blew her nose. “Or that’s what the police said. Apparently it’s very common.”

Dawn and Joan exchanged a quick look. They had both heard the quiver in her voice on the word ‘police’.

“You don’t believe them?”

“I don’t know!” Megan burst out. “He’s too sedated, I can’t ask him. I just - I still don’t know why he was home. It was ten in the morning, he’d left the house at seven. I saw him go.”

“You look like you could use a cup of coffee,” Joan said. “Let Dawn and I get it for you.”

“I could use something a lot stronger than that,” said Megan, “but I don’t think they’ll have a bar here. Thank you.”

Joan walked past two coffee machines before Dawn asked where they were going.

“Somewhere she can’t hear us,” said Joan. “We’ll get the coffee, don’t worry.”

They stopped inside the ICU waiting room. There was a sudden flurry of activity as a group of nurses zipped past them, white shoes squeaking against the floor, and then silence. It always was that way with hospitals. Chaos or eerie stillness.

There was a man asleep in one of the chairs. Aside from him they were alone.

“Let me propose a theoretical situation,” said Joan. “Let’s say you got mugged. Not only that, but shot.”

“I’m glad this is theoretical.”

“You’d try and get back in your apartment, right? The one several stories up from where you are.”

“Of course not.”

“ _Exactly_.” Joan glanced back at the hallway they had come from; checking to make sure Megan hadn’t come looking for them. “There’s a lie here. I don’t know what it is yet. Either he got shot inside the building or… I have no idea, honestly. But it’s not what he told the police.”

“Why would he lie?” asked Dawn. “I don’t think we can rule out disorientation. What motive could he have? What a bizarre thing to do.”

“When you have been working this job as long as I have,” said Joan, “you are going to see that people are capable of _anything_.”

“Okay,” said Dawn, considering. “Let's go with this. Where does it leave Megan? She’s the one who hired us.”

Joan shrugged. “I hate to say it, but the spouse is always a suspect for a reason. And he was cheating.”

“So we assume. I never did catch him at it.” Dawn remembered Megan’s tear-swollen eyes. “She seemed torn up about this.”

“Yes,” Joan reminded her, “but she’s also an actress.”

“I don’t see why she’d call us, that’s all. It would be best to keep us out of it. And she was at work.”

“That doesn’t prevent her from hiring someone,” said Joan. “Look: I’m not accusing her of anything one way or another. But we have to be thorough.”

“We have to - is this our case? We’re solving attempted murders now?”

“I don’t see why not. The police manage it, and they’re not that bright.”

“I guess it’s not _that_ different,” said Dawn slowly. “If no one else is looking into it we might as well.”

“Worst case scenario, we’re wrong,” said Joan. “And if we’re right we have to go to the police anyway.”

Joan found a coffee machine and plugged a couple of coins into it. It juddered to life with a whirr - the coffee was soot-dark and bitter smelling.

“What do we tell her about it?” Dawn asked. She couldn’t help feeling guilty. Megan had looked so alone.

“We work around her as long as we can,” answered Joan.

Megan was taking the pins out of her hair when they got back with the coffee. She put them in her purse and raked a hand through her hair. It fell to her shoulders, a little wavy from being tucked up. Then she stood with her arms folded, frowning, until she spotted them. “You found some,” she said, lighting up with a smile of gratitude.

“We had to go on a pilgrimage,” said Joan. “I hope you like it black.”

“Fine by me. I’d drink motor oil right now.”

“Do you have anyone you can call?” asked Dawn.

“I can get a friend to come pick me up,” Megan said. “And I’ll phone my mother when I get home. She’ll take the train down from Montreal.”

“Are you sure?” asked Dawn. “We can sit with you if you like.”

“No,” Megan said, “but god, thank you. I’m fine. I feel a little better, honestly. You’ve helped so much already.”

There was that guilt again, coiled and writhing in Dawn’s chest like a snake. She wanted to say something to make it go away; but there was nothing she could do about it without lying. In the end she turned back and lifted her hand in a wave as she and Joan retreated down the hall. Good luck, she thought. Megan returned the gesture.

 

 

The phone rang while Dawn was rummaging through the file cabinet. She stretched out an arm blindly and grabbed for it, still bent over the drawer, flicking through folders and sheets of paper. “Hello?” she asked, and pressed the receiver to her ear with her shoulder.

“Dawn?” Megan said. “Is that you?”

Dawn paused. She looked around for Joan instinctively before recalling that she had stepped out to get coffee from the bodega down the street.

“Hi,” she said, sitting down on her desk. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s about Don.”

“Oh,” said Dawn. Again she looked around, this time out the window as though she could stall for time on a phone call. “What about him?”

“What happened today… look, I’m not sure the police are right about this. I still haven’t been able to talk to Don about it. I was wondering if maybe you and Joan could look into it? If you have time?’

Dawn was silent for a full minute. “Certainly,” she said, when her brain caught up with her ears. “We’ll have no problem doing that for you.”

“Tell Joan money is no object,” Megan said. “I know this isn’t your usual business.”

When Joan came back in Dawn was still sitting on the edge of her desk with her legs crossed. “Did anything happen while I was gone?” she asked, putting the can of coffee on the counter next to the pot. “You look like the cat that got the canary.”

“I’ve been speaking to our newest client.”

“Who’s that?”

“Megan Calvet.”

 

 

They taped large sheets of paper on the wall and wrote out the names of everyone who could be involved, categorized by their relationship to Don. They needed to get alibis - and then they needed to _check_ the alibis.

“Anyone unaccounted for goes to the top of the list,” said Joan. She wrote underneath Megan’s name with a felt pen in blocky letters: at work 8 to 11 AM. “I checked Megan already. But like I said before, she could have hired someone.”

“She’s paying us, Joan,” Dawn said, stirring sugar into her tea. She was standing back watching Joan put the chart together. “Does that not make a difference.”

“Could be a misdirect,” Joan said. She was attached to that idea.

“Are we using the insurance investigators?” Dawn asked. It was a useful ruse, allowing them to ask about accidents, schedules, all sorts of things. A shooting likely still applied. All it took was a business card and a conservative blazer.

“Work for home and home for work,” Joan said.

“Oh,” said Dawn. “We’ll be asking around Don’s work?”

And that was all she said, honest, but Joan zeroed right in on her the second it left her mouth.

“Why?” she asked, eyes like lasers. “Is that going to be a problem?”

No, Dawn thought. “Maybe,” she said. She had lied for this job - she had learned to lie for it - but her first instinct was still to tell the truth. It was just so much harder when she was looking into a face she knew.

Joan sighed, but seemed unconcerned. “Did you go inside? I told you that wasn’t necessary.”

“I stayed in the car,” Dawn said. She hesitated, because she should have told Joan before and she knew it. Because she felt strangely like she was betraying a confidence.

She wasn’t, though. She didn’t even know him.

“I’m - _acquainted_ with one of Don’s coworkers.”

Joan’s eyebrows shot upwards almost comically. She blinked; her eyes softened and filled with humor. “How acquainted?”

Dawn felt her face heat up. She was suddenly very annoyed. It was all such a joke, wasn’t it? “Not like _that_.”

Joan straightened her shoulders. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, cool and distant. Not like Dawn. “Did he see you there?”

“No,” said Dawn. “Because I stayed in the car.” She was aware she was being stubborn for no reason, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Another long, flat stare from Joan. Dawn wished she would have some kind of reaction. “What was he doing?”

“What?”

“Your friend,” Joan said again. “What was he doing?”

“Does it matter?” With that Dawn looked away, ashamed. Yes, it did. Of course. “He was fighting with Don.”

Joan blinked and Dawn got that reaction she’d wanted. Like the manifestation of so many things hoped for it wasn’t very nice when it arrived. “And you _kept_ that from me?”

“Not deliberately!” Dawn crossed her arms, a useless gesture but she felt like she had to do _something_ to defend herself. “I didn’t think it would be relevant.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” said Joan, incredulously. She was looking at Dawn like she had never seen her before. “It’s a case, anything can be relevant. You _know_ that.”

“Because no one had shot Don yet!” Dawn snapped, throwing her hands up. “How was I supposed to see that coming? It didn’t have anything to do with Don’s affair. I thought - I thought I could actually have a personal life for once. I should have known better.”

“What’s his name?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to want to talk to him particularly,” said Joan. “Aren’t I?”

“Ginsberg,” Dawn said, defeated. The poor guy had no idea what was coming for him.

“Does he have a first name?”

“Presumably. I don’t know it,” Dawn admitted.

“That’s unusual,” Joan muttered. “Usually it’s the other way around.”

Dawn glared at her. Joan met her eye with cool precision, and it was Dawn who looked away first.

Joan went to her desk and got her purse. She slid the strap over her shoulder and came back to where Dawn was standing. “Can I trust you to stay away from him for the time being?”

“What?” she scoffed. “I - come _on_ , Joan.”

“This is serious,” Joan said, and now her voice was hard. Now it pulled Dawn to her like a hook. “He might be _dangerous_ , Dawn.”

“I won’t be seeing him,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Good. I’m going to go work the insurance angle at Sterling Cooper.” Joan paused in the doorway. “Will you be able to handle canvassing the apartment building? Or should I do that too?”

Dawn fumed but she was already somewhere near China; she had to stop digging. “Yes. I can handle the building.”

“Glad to hear it,” Joan said, and shut the door behind her with a click.

 

 

She could have been fired. She _absolutely_ could have been fired.

And yet she’d kept on going, boneheaded, with the unmanageable trajectory of someone running down a hill only to reach the midpoint and realize that gravity was carrying them the rest of the way whether they wanted it to or not.

She had become too used to thinking of Joan as her friend rather than her employer. They saw each other outside of work; they were together for long, odd hours and that was bound to create a feeling of intimacy. Dawn had always liked boundaries - she had been the sort of person who kept home and work separated, who wanted to walk through her front door at the end of the day without the office following at her heels. She drew a thick line between her professional and personal selves. Somehow that line had eroded without her noticing.

But she could rebuild it, she thought as she shrugged into her jacket in the car and patted her hair down in the mirror. She could be careful. Dawn was good at careful.

The doorman was different than the one who had spoken with her the other day, so she didn’t have to be sneaky. Instead she flashed a bland smile at him and said hello as she slid her key into the lock. Megan had given it to her.

She started on the floor below the Draper’s apartment. It was amazing what could be heard through a ceiling.

The first neighbor was an elderly woman who was hard of hearing. She pushed her coke-bottle glasses up her nose and peered into Dawn’s face myopically. “Are you from the agency?”

“Agency?” Dawn said - shouted, really, so that her voice would register. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The _agency_ ,” said the woman again. She pointed over her shoulder at some kind of medical equipment that crowded the living room. “To help with that.”

“Oh, you mean a nurse,” Dawn said. “No, I’m not a nurse.”

“Then I don’t want any,” the woman said, and no amount of explaining could get her to understand that Dawn wasn’t selling anything.

Most of the tenants weren’t home at that hour of the day, and the ones that were tended not to be helpful. They thought Dawn was cleaning staff that had gotten lost, and when she corrected them - went into her insurance investigator spiel, complete with business card - they looked at her with suspicion. One person wouldn’t even answer the door. She could hear a T.V. going, she knew that they were home. But no amount of knocking would summon them.

She had started at the end of the hall. By the time she got to the suite nearest the elevator she was frustrated and not on the top of her game.

So when Sylvia Rosen opened the door, clad in a satin robe and matching slippers, Dawn stared.

“Hello?” Sylvia said, leaning against the doorframe. “Can I help you with something?”

“Sorry,” Dawn replied. She tapped the side of her head. “Woolgathering; it’s been that kind of day.”

“I’ve had a few of those lately myself,” said Sylvia with a smile. “Are you doing some kind of survey?”

“I’m an insurance investigator,” said Dawn. “One of your neighbors had an… accident recently. I’m trying to determine whether his home insurance will conflict with the health insurance he gets through work, since I’m told the incident occurred within the area of your building.”

“I’m not sure what I’d have to do with that,” said Sylvia. “What kind of accident?”

“Well, I say _accident_ , but - you must have heard. About Mr. Draper?”

“I - oh, right. Of course. I see why you’d have to be -”

“Tactful?” asked Dawn. “Yes, we wouldn’t want to help feed any rumors. But we do need to get this sorted out. May I come in?”

Sylvia looked like she didn’t know what to do. She hovered anxiously in the doorway, blocking Dawn’s path, and then moved aside abruptly. “Of course.”

Dawn stood just inside, so as to give Sylvia as much space as possible. She also closed the door for privacy’s sake.

Sylvia took a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of her robe. She struck the bottom of it against her palm until a few shook loose and put one in her mouth. The whole time she kept her eyes on the cigarettes, on her hands. She didn’t look at Dawn once.

“Do you need a light?” Dawn asked. She always had a lighter on her, even though she didn’t smoke. Joan had taught her that it could be useful.

“No, I’m sure I have one.” Sylvia patted her pockets, clearly buying time. Maybe she was hoping someone else would arrive and interrupt the conversation. She lit up in a flicker of sparks and turned back to Dawn. “What is it you’d like to know?”

Now she seemed cooler, more composed. There was a smoothness to her expression that wasn’t entirely natural. Could Dawn have been so poised, if it was her lover lying in the hospital with gunshot wounds? She didn’t think so.

“Anything you know could potentially be useful. Were you home when it happened?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. I was out shopping for most of that day - my son is living in Europe, I wanted to send him a care package.”

“Mom’s home baking?” asked Dawn.

“More like some decent clothes.” Sylvia took a draw on her cigarette. “Anyway, I didn’t get home until late afternoon. I heard that all happened in the morning?”

Dawn didn’t confirm or deny. She jotted down a couple of notes on her clipboard - in shorthand, which she would bet Sylvia couldn’t read. She didn’t seem like the type to have ever been a secretary.

“And your husband?” Dawn asked. “Was he home?”

“No,” Sylvia said. “Arnold is a heart surgeon. He was at the hospital. He always is on Friday mornings, whether he has a surgery scheduled or not.”

It wouldn’t be too hard to figure out which hospital Dr. Arnold Rosen worked at, so Dawn didn’t ask. “Thank you so much,” she said instead, “it’s such a terrible thing to have happen.”

“Yes,” said Sylvia. Something behind the polished veneer flickered. “Is he hurt very badly?”

“I haven’t been privy to the details,” said Dawn. “Do you know the Drapers well?”

Sylvia smiled flatly. “We meet for dinner occasionally. Other than that,” she said, blowing out smoke, meeting Dawn’s eye, “no, I can’t say I do. I don’t know them well at all.”

 

 

The last door in the Drapers’ hallway didn’t look like the rest of them. It had a large floral wreath on it, winding silk roses in yellow and orange accented by autumn-tinted ferns. When Dawn knocked the door opened almost immediately.

“I was just admiring your wreath,” Dawn said to the woman standing in the doorway. She was in her sixties but still very beautiful. Her kaftan had glittering metallic threads woven through it that sparkled when she moved and she had her silver hair pulled back in a knot at the base of her neck. And she was black.

Dawn hadn’t been expecting that, somehow. Everyone she had seen in the building had been white, even the doormen.

The woman smiled. “Do you like it? My granddaughter made it, she’s very artistic. Such a good eye for color.”

“It’s lovely,” said Dawn, honestly.

“Thank you, I think so too.” She had a slight accent that Dawn couldn’t quite place. “What is it you need, dear?”

Dawn went through her cover story and the woman - she introduced herself as Claudine - invited her inside. She had been making lemonade; her kitchen smelled heavily of citrus and there was a bowl of sliced lemons sitting on the counter.

“I’d offer you some if it was ready,” Claudine said. “I touch it up with a little orange blossom water, it’s very good.”

“Have you been travelling?” Dawn asked. There was an opened suitcase with clothes spilling out of it sitting in the middle of the living room floor, as well as a makeup case and a couple of hatboxes.

“Yes,” said Claudine said. She waved her hand apologetically at the mess. “I was back home in Baton Rouge for a couple of weeks. I’m a slow unpacker.”

So that was it - she was Creole. Her voice was pleasantly melodic, swaying with the particular rhythms of Americanized French.

“When did you get back?” Dawn asked.

“Thursday night.”

“Were you home when Mr. Draper was shot?”

“Of course,” said Claudine, her eyebrows drawing together. “Didn’t the police tell you?”

“You spoke to them?”

“Yes, that same day. It woke me up from my nap - I was sleeping off the jet lag.”

“You mean Mr. Draper woke you up? Did he call out? I was told her went inside his apartment and phoned for an ambulance himself.”

“As far as I know he did,” said Claudine. “There was no one in the hall when I looked out. But I wasn’t referring to Don himself.”

“No?”

“Not at all,” said Claudine. “I meant the gunshot.”

 

 

“I checked the hallways for any traces of blood,” Dawn told Joan. “And the stairwell and elevators, too. I didn’t find anything, but there were some light spots on the carpet that might have been bleached.”

“She was sure, the woman you talked to?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did she know what part of the building it happened in?”

“No, just that she knows what she heard.”

Joan leaned back in her office chair, a considering look on her face. The anger that had been between them had dissipated, but Dawn wasn’t sure she liked what had taken its place. Joan had been brief and polite; Dawn felt small and embarrassed. She wanted to apologize but also wanted to never bring up the issue again.

“So did - how did talking to Don’s coworkers go?” she asked.

“Not very productive,” said Joan. “He doesn’t have many friends there, but I can’t tell if anyone would have a reason to shoot him. And in that case it could just as easily have been the competition, instead of an inside job.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“It doesn’t,” said Joan. She got up from her desk and opened a file drawer - she’d already typed up her notes. Usually they did it at the same time, collaboratively. That way they could talk about it and get fresh eyes on the day’s work. “But Megan left as message with the service while I was out. She says she may have something.”

“Hopefully,” Dawn said. She looked down at her knees under the desk and tried to think of some useful conversation. The clock on the wall ticked away. It was like trying to make small talk with the dentist before he turned on the drill.

“By the way,” said Joan, without turning around. “His name is Michael.”

“Who?”

“Your friend,” said Joan. “The one whose first name you couldn’t recall. It’s Michael.”

“Oh,” Dawn muttered. She wondered how _that_ particular interview had gone.

When Megan arrived she was carrying something square wrapped in a plastic bag. “I found this when I was cleaning out the apartment,” she said. “Don’s coming home in a few days, I wanted everything to be as comfortable as possible.”

It was a small metal lock-box, about the size of a thick book. The hinges were rusty and it looked battered and old.

“You didn’t open it?” Joan asked.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” Megan said.

Did she want permission? Or maybe just company; a bit of padding between her and whatever nasty shock she might be about to receive. Like the fortifying effect of a strong drink.

“Then let’s take a look,” Joan said, practically, and inserted a letter opener under the lid.

The lock broke open almost immediately. All three of them crowded around to get a look inside, but it wasn’t exactly Aztec gold. There was money, a postcard from south of the border, and a collection of papers with numbers scribbled all over them. Each resembled a receipt but the information on them appeared to be meaningless . There were a lot of them, kicking around loose or rolled up and held together with elastic bands.

“What are these?” Megan asked. “I don’t know why he’d lock up a bunch of scrap paper.”

“Does your husband gamble at all?” Joan asked.

“No, why?”

“These are betting slips,” Joan said.

“I’ve never known him to have any issues with gambling,” said Megan. “He drinks. He may be cheating on me - I know he did that to his ex-wife. But I can guarantee you he isn’t having money problems. He doesn’t even go to Vegas.”

“These had to come from somewhere,” said Joan. She was very gentle about it, but Megan got insistent all the same.

“I may not know my husband as well as I thought,” she said. “But he’s only gotten richer in the time we’ve been together. There’s no way someone shot him over an unpaid debt. Besides,” she added, “if he was having trouble then _I_ would have paid it. My career is doing well right now.I can afford it.”

“Would he actually ask for your help?” Joan asked. “In my experience men can be very proud.”

“I think - I think that he would,” said Megan, faltering. “I hope he would.”

“I can see if we can track down the source,” said Joan. “It could be useful.”

“And they might be old or just not relevant,” said Dawn, more for Megan’s benefit than Joan’s. “We’ll let you know either way.”

Still, Megan left the office with her shoulders slumped. She kept getting bad news. None of which was Dawn’s fault, but she kept returning to the sight of Megan’s defeated back all day long. So different from the sleek actress she’d seen in T.V. Guide, smiling broadly. They didn’t even seem like the same woman.

“Can you imagine being married to a man like that?” Dawn asked.

Joan didn’t answer.

 

 

Dawn lay in her bedroom that night staring up at the ceiling. She had on her lightest nightgown and had stripped the bed of all but one sheet. Her little fan, plugged in by the windowsill, went click-whirr-click-whirr. It was still too hot.

She pictured laying next to a man she didn’t know. One who went out with other women, who disappeared for hours and didn’t tell her where he had gone. Who dragged gambling debts and who knows what else into the house when he did come home. Who thought about someone else when he kissed her goodbye.

Sometimes, she mused as she turned over onto her side to face the fan, being single wasn’t so bad after all.

 

 

Dawn hugged Shirley as they parted ways at the subway station. They were both frazzled from the heat, breathless from chasing after the train - Dawn’s hair was curling up from the humidity and her blouse kept bunching at the waistband of her skirt; she didn’t care.

“What is _that_ for?” Shirley laughed and swatted at Dawn’s arm.

“I needed that,” Dawn said. “Thank you for making me go out.”

Shirley had shown up at her door dressed to the nines while Dawn blearily read over the bank statements Megan had provided her with. It had been a week without any significant progress on the case. There were no unusual withdrawals from the Draper’s account within the past few months. Dawn was mystified. “Put that down, Miss Priss,” Shirley had said. “We have plans.”

“I’m in my bathrobe!” Dawn had protested.

“That’s not a permanent condition,” Shirley said. “Get ready - no excuses. You look like death warmed over, what are they _doing_ to you at that place?”

Shirley’s husband had given them a ride downtown. Shirley had been right - Dawn needed a night out badly. It had recalibrated something in her, getting to go out and feel young and unfettered again. She smiled randomly at her fellow commuters as she got on the train.

She hadn’t taken the subway in a long time and had forgotten how good it was for people watching. There was an old lady with a small dog in her purse. She fed him treats steadily, doggie biscuits from her pocket. A punk couple with fluorescent hair who couldn’t sit with each other held hands across the aisle. Every time someone walked past they would let go to allow them through; and then their hands connected again, like magnets. A woman standing on the end of the car had a huge umbrella with her. It hadn’t rained for weeks.

The rocking of the train lulled Dawn and she had been drinking, but she still noticed when a large man dropped into the seat across from her. He was bald as an egg and wore an old brown suit. Nondescript, but something about him caught her attention.

He smiled at her. She presented him with the blank face of a woman who didn’t want to be bothered. He fished a magazine out from under the seat and started reading.

It should have been fine. He was occupied. But every time Dawn looked away - glanced out the window or at another passenger - she had the powerful sensation of being watched.

She got up and switched seats. So did he.

She did it again. He followed.

Now her heart was pounding. She couldn’t go home; it was a long walk from the subway and there were too many places along the way where she could be waylaid. There was no one waiting up for her - she was alone.

She tried to think clearly. At the next stop she got off, hoping to lose him and working on the idea that it would be safer in a crowd. The streets were packed. It was a Saturday night. She looked back over her shoulder and cursed to see a bald head weaving and ducking through the throng.

She walked faster and even looped back around; no dice, he dogged her heels. He _had_ to have realized that she knew he was there. Yet he didn’t act like someone with a blown cover. He just kept coming.

Dawn needed to call Joan. Joan would know what to do - but Dawn didn’t have any change for a payphone. Shirley had paid for everything. It was her treat, she said.

She darted into a corner store and asked to use the phone. “It’s an emergency,” she said.

“Sorry,” the kid behind the counter told her. “My boss says it’s only for employees.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dawn demanded. “It’s a two minute phone call!”

“Hey, lady,” the kid said, holding up his hands. “It’s not _my_ policy.”

Dawn could see her pursuer leaning against a light pole outside. He was pretending to read a newspaper.

She went out with her chin held high and her eyes smarting. There was a coffee shop around the corner; she had been there before on one of her post-stakeout jaunts. She headed for it, every noise sounding like footsteps behind her.

She wanted to turn around and see if she was still being followed. She didn’t dare slow down.

Thirty seconds, she thought. Thirty seconds to and she could call Joan and everything would be fine.

If the man touched her she would scream; she would scream so loud and so long that no one could ignore her -

\- but she didn’t have to, not quite, because as she rounded the corner she walked smack into Michael Ginsberg.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, everyone. And thanks to those still reading.

 

 

 

She almost knocked them both over. He careened backwards as she slammed into his chest; they managed to steady themselves just in time as she grabbed at his waist and he put his hands on her shoulders.

“ _What_ -” he said, startled in the split second before he recognized her. “Dawn? Is that you?”

“Uh,” she said, and looked frantically back over her shoulder. She couldn’t see the man in the brown suit, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

“You following me?” he asked. When she didn’t answer he seemed to realize it was bad timing for that kind of joke. “Are you okay? You look freaked out.”

“Can we go somewhere?” she asked in a rush. She was still breathing hard; in spite of the heat she was cold all the way down. “Can you walk me to - I need a telephone. I need to call someone.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “What’s wrong, is it an emergency?”

“Kind of,” she said. “I’ll explain later. I just want to call Joan.”

“Your boss?” said Ginsberg.

“We could go in the diner,” said his friend, jabbing his thumb in the direction of its doors. Dawn looked at him for the first time. He was a burly guy in plaid, with a beard and long hair. His expression was friendly.

“Thank you,” she said. And then, cringing internally from embarrassment: “Could you sit with me. while I wait? I’d rather not be alone right now.” She didn’t know what she would do if she was tailed into the diner; if, god forbid, the man following her tried to sit next to her.

“Sure,” said Ginsberg’s friend. “Not like we have anything else going on.”

That wasn’t true; they had obviously been headed somewhere. But she appreciated the kindness of the lie.

She called Joan while sitting at the counter. Ginsberg and his friend picked a booth by the window and gave her privacy.

Joan sounded sleepy when she said picked up and said hello. She was probably in bed.

“Uh,” said Dawn, suddenly stupid. She couldn’t think of a good way to describe the situation. “It’s me. Dawn, I mean.”

“Dawn? Why - what time is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Dawn said. “I’ve - could you come get me?”

“Come get you? What’s going on?”

“I was being followed,” said Dawn. “But I’m in a diner now and -”

“Where is it?” asked Joan immediately. She didn’t sound tired anymore. “Give me the address,”

Dawn walked over to the booth and saw Ginsberg’s friend check his watch. “You don’t have to stay,” she said as she sat down across from them. “I was probably overreacting.”

“I’m not gonna go anywhere until your friend shows up,” Ginsberg said. “Stan, you can leave. Peggy’s probably waiting for us at the movie already.”

“You don’t mind?” Stan asked Dawn. “I can understand not wanting to be left alone with Ginzo.” Ginsberg turned an indignant glare on him, which he didn’t acknowledge at all.

“I don’t mind,” Dawn reassured him. She was still feeling shaky, but not as badly as before.

He stood up. “Hope your night gets a whole lot better,” he said, and dropped a hand on Ginsberg’s shoulder. “And if this guy doesn't behave himself, just kick him.”

“He seems nice,” said Dawn after Stan had gone.

“I try not to give him compliments,” said Ginsberg. “It swells his head. That’s the roommate I was telling you about the last time we met.”

“The one having the party.”

“Right,” said Ginsberg. He held up a menu. “The waitress wanted to know if we were ordering anything.”

“I could use a coffee,” Dawn said.

He got her one and they stayed in awkward silence until he cleared his throat. “So were you working tonight?”

“No,” she said. “I was out with a friend. It had nothing to do with - well, maybe it did. This sort of thing doesn’t usually happen to me.”

“Good,” he said. “You had me worried there for a second.”

She smiled and it was genuine. He was a comforting presence, somehow. In spite of being kind of twitchy. “I’ll be fine. I’m not Phillip Marlowe.”

“No,” he said. “You’re much cuter.”

“Oh,” she said. “I - thank you.”

“That was bad timing,” he said. “Really bad -”

“No, it’s okay,” she said at the same time. “I’m not offended -”

“ - so I’m sorry,” he finished.

“I’d like to be that good at the job,” Dawn said. “But, you know, get shot at a whole lot less.”

“Hey, you are good!” he said. “Megan told me you were really there for her when she needed it.”

Dawn had been drinking her coffee; now she lowered it slowly and stared at him. She was too taken aback to pretend to be anything else. Some detective she was. “You know her?”

“Yeah,” he said, clearly puzzled by her reaction. “We’re friends. She used to be a copywriter too. Don doesn’t know about it.” Ginsberg snorted with contempt. “He doesn’t like her hanging around with men.”

“I had no idea,” Dawn said. Her stomach squirmed. What if they were _together_? And she was just a dummy with the wool pulled over her eyes?

“She was so sad all the time,” he continued on blithely. “And when you gave me your card I thought it was - whatzit - serendipity. I just wish I’d -”

She met his eyes; he was blushing, heavily.

Whatever he had been about to say, he changed his mind. “Forget about it. I’m running off at the mouth as usual.”

They went quiet again, Dawn looking down at the mug in her hands and him pretending to browse the menu.

“You know he didn’t get his first book published until he was in his fifties?” Ginsberg asked. “Raymond Chandler.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” said Dawn. “Have you read a lot of him?”

They talked about books until Joan showed up. It was easy, having a conversation with him. Like it had been before.

Joan was wearing black pants with a men’s t-shirt and had her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. It was always a bit strange to see her dressed casually.

She looked surprised to see Ginsberg sitting with Dawn; he looked positively startled.

“So I’m guessing,” he said, slowly, “that you aren’t actually an insurance investigator.”

Joan didn’t bother to deny it. “No. Dawn and I work together.”

“Thank you for the coffee,” Dawn said, and hoped Joan would let her explain on the drive home. She opened her purse to search for loose change.

“Don’t,” he said. “I got it. Get home safe, okay?”

He couldn’t be involved, she thought. He couldn’t be.

 

 

“I’ve had a few drinks,” Dawn said as soon as they got into the car, in case Joan could smell it. “But I swear I wasn’t exaggerating -”

Joan put her hand on Dawn’s arm. “I know. I believe you.”

“Oh,” Dawn said. She had expected somehow that she would need to press her point. Since she didn’t she was a bit of a loss for words.

“Yes,” said Joan. “Because the same thing happened to me today.”

“Oh my god,” said Dawn. “Are you okay?” What had they involved themselves in? This was _crazy_.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I was with Lane, so nothing happened. But it was unsettling.”

“That’s for sure,” Dawn muttered.

They drove quietly for some time, the glow from the streetlights passing over their faces. After all the stress and excitement from earlier she felt very drained, and not up to much conversation.

“I’m taking you to my place,” said Joan.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” said Joan. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone tonight.”

Lane was in the kitchen when they got to Joan’s apartment. He was wearing a dark blue bathrobe with matching slippers and had a kettle going on the stove.

It was easy to let them take over. To let Joan make up a bed on the couch and lend her a set of oversized striped pyjamas, to let Lane get her settled at the table and pour her a cup of tea.

“The boys are asleep,” said Lane, as he passed her a box of sugar cubes. Joan was in the bathroom, changing into her nightdress. “So at least you’ll have some peace until the morn -”

A door opened in the hall. “Dad? Is that you I’m hearing?”

“Well,” Lane sighed. “Forget that, I suppose.” And then, louder, “Yes, Nigel. It is. And we have a guest, so make yourself decent.”

“M’not wandering about in my pants,” Nigel complained. “I’m not a _complete_ savage.”

He was in a sweatshirt and pyjama bottoms that were at least three inches too short, as a matter of fact. When he saw Dawn he stopped in the kitchen doorway, startled. He was such a tall and lanky kid that he always reminded her of a stork. She assumed he must resemble Rebecca because he sure didn’t look like Lane, except that he wore the same kind of thick-lensed glasses.

He had them on now, sliding halfway down his nose so that he peered owlishly over them. “Dawn,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Hi Nigel,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I, uh - can’t help but notice you seem to be dressed for bed? Did your flat catch fire?”

“No,” said Dawn, slowly, while Lane choked down a laugh. She stepped on his foot under the table. “But I did have a small emergency, so I’m staying here tonight.”

“Will you be wanting the bed?” he asked, and jabbed his thumb back at his bedroom door. “I’ll take the fold-out, no worries.”

Dawn swiftly stomped out this attempt at chivalry. “Joan already set it up for me, it’ll work just fine.”

“All right,” he said. There was an awkward pause. He scratched the shaved side of his head; the rest of his hair fell down in front of his eyes when he didn’t shellac it with gel. Joan had forbidden Lane from even bringing the subject up, citing teenage rebellion and insisting that any pushback was going to result in tattoos and safety pins where no safety pins should be. “Anything I can do for you, then?”

“I’m good,” said Dawn. “Really.”

Another door opened, this time further down the hallway. Kevin staggered out, rubbing at his eyes.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “If Nigel gets to stay up late then I should too.”

“But I’m so much bigger than you,” Nigel said. He scooped Kevin up and carried him back to his bedroom with promises of a bedtime story.

“You missed the party,” said Lane after Joan joined them.

“I heard them,” said Joan. “Nigel is reading Thomas the Tank Engine to Kevin. I’m sure he’ll come back out after he’s finished.”

He did, though not before he’d swapped his apparently embarrassing nightclothes for artfully torn jeans and a shirt that said _The Damned_ on it, whoever that was. He made an attempt to steal the chair closest to Dawn but Joan said it was hers and insisted he move. Thank god.

 

 

Dawn lay in the dark with her eyes closed, but she didn’t sleep. She ought to have been drifting off; the apartment was quiet and her body thrummed with post-stress exhaustion. It was her mind that wouldn’t cut it out. In her head she wandered down a million dark alleys where things went wrong for her, as they might have tonight. Her job had never followed her home before. Since it had she couldn’t pretend there wasn’t a possibility it could happen again. Which made her ask herself, as she had many times before, if it was worth it.

A light flicked on outside the room, pale yellow stretching across the floor. Joan followed it in. Her nightgown was green chiffon and empire waisted; she looked like she should be carrying a candle or running across the moors.

“Dawn,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Dawn said. “You couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

“I usually read,” said Joan. She reached over and turned on a lamp. “But Lane’s asleep and I thought it might bother him.”

“Not the best day for either of us,” said Dawn.

“No,” said Joan. She walked over to the television and clicked through the channels with the volume on low. Megan Calvet’s face flashed across the screen. Not a rerun of her show, but the network advertising it.

“I can’t watch that anymore,” said Joan. “It’s too odd now that I’ve met her.”

“Michael knows her,” said Dawn. “Michael Ginsberg, I mean. He told me about it.”

“It’s not exactly a shock,” said Joan. “He works for her husband.”

“He recommended us to her.”

In the flickering glow of the television Dawn saw Joan’s eyebrows raise. “I admit I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Would he do that, if he was involved?” Dawn asked. “I can’t even tell anymore. I swear I understand people less and less.”

Joan came back over and tucked into an armchair with her legs folded sideways under her. “For what it’s worth, I doubt it. He doesn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer type. But would he cover for her? Maybe. Certain men are easily led.”

Dawn picked at a loose thread on her blanket. “I don’t like to think of it being Megan, either. Isn’t that idiotic? I’m invested in the outcome.”

“Of course you are,” said Joan. “I never expected you to be some kind of detached observer. It’s just that - I know she’s a nice enough person. But nice people can do crazy things when they're desperate.” She paused long enough that Dawn thought she was finished, before starting up again in a hushed tone of voice. Like it was important that they weren’t overheard. “Did I ever tell you about Greg, my ex?”

“Not much,” said Dawn. “That he was on the police force.”

“Greg was - he was very controlling, really.”

“He was?” Dawn snuck a glance at Joan and could only see her profile, watching the T.V. It was difficult to imagine anyone controlling her.

“Oh yes,” said Joan. She was so calm it was almost eerie, as if what she was talking about happened to someone else. “After I threw him out he used to follow me around. In his stupid police cruiser.”

“Holy _shit_ ,” said Dawn. She didn’t even think about it - the epithet just popped out.

The corners of Joan’s mouth twitched a little. “Yes. Not close enough that I could see him properly, but I knew it was him. And he wanted me to know. But who was I supposed to report him to? Kevin was only a baby. I had him to think of. I considered buying a gun.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t have to,” she said. “Greg lost interest. I suppose he moved on to someone else, but I didn’t care enough to find out who. I was too relieved at finally being left alone.” She passed her hand over her eyes, weary. “That whole relationship was humiliating. He could do anything he wanted, but of course I couldn’t. He cheated -”

“Not a surprise.”

“No. But he sure didn’t expect me to run around on him. I wish I’d taken a picture of his face.”

“Good,” said Dawn. “I’m glad you did.”

Joan laughed, quiet and pleased. “You don’t really believe that. But thank you for saying so.” She shrugged and settled back into the recliner. “All I’m saying is that I understand Megan Calvet’s mindset better than you know. If Greg had shown up at my door and I’d had that gun - I have no idea what would have happened.”

“Joan?” said Dawn. “I’m sorry I got so snippy with you, before.”

“It’s okay,” Joan said. “Forget about it.”

“I was embarrassed,” said Dawn. She was _still_ embarrassed to be admitting as much. That her lack of a social life bothered her. “You know I don’t - go out, very much. With men. I thought you were making fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Joan. “You’re allowed your privacy, Dawn.”

“Yeah, but.. I guess it would be nice. If someone showed a real interest.”

“There’s always Nigel.”

“ _Joan_.”

“I wouldn’t mind having you for a daughter in law.”

“Okay. It’s time for you to go back to bed.”

She didn’t, though. They skipped through the channels until they found an episode of _Rhoda_. It was the one where Rhoda and Joe got married. “Let’s watch this,” Dawn said. “I always thought she looked so beautiful in her wedding dress.”

 

 

At work they discussed their theories about what had happened on Saturday.

“Someone could have hired a detective to tail _us_ ,” said Dawn. “It would have to be somebody we suspected, obviously. From Sterling Cooper, maybe?”

“Could be,” said Joan. She was sitting by the open window, smoking a cigarette thoughtfully. “But honestly, they seemed very disorganized to me. And did you notice how … performative the whole thing was?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it wasn’t subtle. We both caught on right away. Like he was _trying_ to be seen.”

“Trying to be seen.” Dawn stirred some cream into her tea while puzzling over that idea. The blend was a favorite of Joan’s, rich and smoky. “Why would anyone do that?”

“As a warning,” said Joan. “I think I know from who. And I have to say I’m not happy about it.”

“Well, I admit to being stumped,” said Dawn. “I’m not following at all.”

She exhaled a puff of smoke. “Jimmy Barrett.”

“But Jimmy Barrett is -”

“A small, angry man who likes to throw his weight around,” Joan said dryly. “Or other people’s weight, I should say. Did anyone see you when you took those pictures of him?”

“I didn’t think so,” Dawn said. “I sure tried to keep from being spotted. But I can’t promise they didn’t, I guess. Would he really send someone to scare us over some pictures?”

“Oh, yes,” said Joan. “He’s exactly the type. I’m not going to put up with it, either.”

Dawn frowned. “What are you planning? The man is some kind of mob boss, Joan. Going after him would be crazy.”

Joan stubbed out her cigarette. “Of course it would be - so I won’t. I’m going to do something much smarter.” When she smiled it wasn’t nice or friendly at all. “I’m going to talk to his wife.”

 

 

Bobbie Barrett was nearer to fifty than forty but she hadn’t let that cramp her style any. Her light red hair was swept up in an elegant twist and she wore diamond earrings and a silk blouse. She would have looked like one of the ladies who lunched if not for a trace of hardness around the eyes.

“Is this your bodyguard?” she asked with an amused glance at Dawn.

It rubbed Dawn the wrong way but she took her cues from Joan, who remained cool as a cucumber. They sat down at the bar and ordered a club soda each.

“Not mixing business with pleasure, I see.” Bobbie tipped her glass towards them. Scotch on the rocks, by the looks of it.

“I’ve had an unsettling experience recently,” said Joan. “I’ve heard that leaning on alcohol afterwards can foster a dependence.”

Bobbie smirked. “All I know is it worked out fine for me.”

Joan went on. “My friend here did too. Isn’t that curious? Both of us, in the same week.”

Bobbie tilted her head and examined them with a flat, expressionless sort of curiosity. “What exactly am I supposed to take from that?”

“That I don’t appreciate being followed,” said Joan. “And I’d like your husband to call off his dogs.”

“You decide to go crooked, Joan?” Bobbie asked. She still seemed to think the situation was very funny. “Get down in the dirt with the rest of us? And they said you couldn’t be bought.”

“Would you say I know something about you, Bobbie?” Joan asked.

Bobbie’s tone curdled, just a touch. “I wouldn’t dare argue. What do you want from me, Joan?”

“I want Mr. Barrett to stop interfering in my case,” said Joan. “How you accomplish that is up to you.”

Wow, Dawn thought. Joan was really playing hardball. She had insisted on coming along because she didn’t want Joan to be alone with someone who could be dangerous. It looked like her assistance wasn’t going to be required.

Bobbie noticed her for the first time since Joan’s verbal jujitsu had begun. “Can she speak, your friend? Am I drinking with a deaf-mute?”

“Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt,” Dawn said. It came out of nowhere - she tried to be polite, usually, she really did. But she was short on patience lately.

“Everybody’s a comedian,” Bobbie said, turning away. She finished her drink and handed the bartender a few dollar bills as he drifted by. Her movements were laconic, almost bored. “Are we done? I have to go be insulted by a different group of people.”

“No,” said Joan. “I have a few more questions.”

“ _Naturellement_ ,” said Bobbie. She ordered another scotch with a resigned air. “Who would you like me to inform on? You know Jimmy doesn’t involve me in the extracurriculars.”

“No,” said Joan. “But you’re at the club a lot, and that’s where my interest lies.”

“Considering picking up a few bad habits?”

“I need to know about someone who already has some,” said Joan. “Don Draper.”

Whatever reaction Dawn had been expecting was not the one they got. Bobbie threw her head back in a full-throated laugh. “ _Don_ ,” she said. “It would be him, wouldn’t it?”

“You know him,” Dawn said. “From the club?”

“A lot of women _know_ Don,” she said. “It isn’t significant.”

Dawn and Joan exchanged a look. “And is your husband? Is he aware of your connection to Mr. Draper?” Dawn asked. It would be as clear a motivation for shooting someone as she had ever seen.

“Honey, if you think Jimmy’s going to bother tracking down every man I’ve been with -” Bobbie shook her head. “Frankly he has more important things to worry about than Don. And it was ages ago, when he was still married to that little blonde.”

“Alright,” said Joan. “Sylvia Rosen. Do you know her?”

“Nope.”

“Bobbie,” said Joan. “No screwing around.”

“I mean it,” said Bobbie. “I never met any Sylvia Rosen. Don and I don’t exactly cross paths socially much anymore. We aren’t friends.”

“He’s been coming to your club with her lately,” said Dawn. “She’s about his age, very pretty, dark-haired?”

“Ah,” said Bobbie. “I’ve got it now. The sad housewife.” She shrugged when Joan gave her a pointed look. “I recognize the type. He used to like them more independent than that. As long as he wasn’t marrying them himself.”

“What can you tell us about her?” Joan asked.

“She gambles,” said Bobbie. “And she’s bad at it.”

 

 

Dawn left Joan alone for all of five seconds once they got to the car. “What was _that_ ,” she said as soon as Joan got the keys in the ignition, too excited to contain herself.

“What do you mean?” Joan asked. She pretended ignorance, but there was a little twinkle in her eye.

“Would you say I know something about you?” Dawn mimicked. She couldn’t quite pull off the icy stare, but she tried. “C’mon. Spill.”

Joan laughed. “ _Dawn_. No - I can’t.”

“Please?” Dawn wheedled. She wasn’t much of a gossip but whatever Joan had on Bobbie _had_ to be juicy. “I’m dying to know.”

“You’ll have to keep on dying, because I’m not saying. Really,” she said when Dawn sighed, verklempt, “what kind of blackmailer would I be if I told all my secrets?” She shrugged her shoulders lightly. “Suffice it to say that I knew her when I was young. Before Jimmy. She was trying to be an actress, back then.”

“An actress? really?”

“Surely you noticed there’s a bit of the theatrical about Bobbie.” Joan leaned towards Dawn, conspiratorially. “Her name was Bethy Pasternak in those days.”

“Imagine that,” Dawn said, pleased.

“Yes. But that’s all you’re getting.”

“It’ll do,” said Dawn. “But this is good, right? We know Jimmy Barrett doesn’t have a reason to go after Don. Or probably doesn’t, anyway.”

“Takes us back to the beginning,” said Joan.

Dawn frowned. “Really? Seems like progress to me.”

“It is,” said Joan. “I meant that literally. Back to -”

She waited for Dawn to finish the sentence.

“The building,” said Dawn, slowly, as she figured it out. “Don and Megan’s apartment building.”

“Right,” said Joan. “And therefore Doctor and Mrs. Rosen.”

 

 

Back at the office they hashed it out over takeout Chinese.

“Megan turned over their bank statements without a problem,” Joan said as she wound noodles around her fork. “And there were no notable withdrawals; I suppose my theory about her hiring a hitman was a little overblown.”

“That means that Don wouldn’t have been giving Sylvia Rosen money for her gambling either,” Dawn pointed out. “At least not large amounts. We know that she owes money to some dangerous people; we know that he knows it too. Could she have attacked him for refusing to help her?”

“Hmm,” said Joan. She tapped her fork against the edge of the carton. “It’s possible. How did they act, when you saw them together?”

“Pretty lovey-dovey,” Dawn admitted. “She’d have to change her mind awful fast if she was shooting him a day later.”

“What were your impressions of her?”

“Chilly,” said Dawn. “Like she was holding something back. But she’s a gambler who was having an affair, so of course she was.”

“And you never met the husband, right?”

“No,” said Dawn. “He was at work, she told me.”

“We never confirmed that,” said Joan. “We got so damn distracted by Jimmy Barrett. And jealousy is a motive as old as time itself.”

“A wife might lie to protect her husband,” said Dawn, “even an unfaithful one. But Don has no reason to lie for Arnold Rosen’s sake. According to Sylvia they barely knew each other.”

“We’ve got to interview him,” said Joan. “And we need to know if the Rosens ever had or recently acquired a gun. Find out when you talk to him.”

“When I - me - why am _I_ doing it?” asked Dawn. He was a famous cardiac surgeon. Joan had shown her an article that ran in the _Times_ about a technique he’d perfected or invented. How was a rookie detective supposed to dig into a mind like that? “Why aren’t you?”

“Because I want to talk to her,” said Joan, practically. “And she met you already. So you take him.”

“I don’t know about this,” said Dawn.

“I have every confidence in your abilities,” said Joan.

Dawn didn’t, quite. She still went as ordered. It was her job.

Dr. Rosen was a short, bald man with a friendly smile and a pleasant voice. He welcomed Dawn into his office as if they were old friends.

“Call me Arnie,” he said as they shook hands.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” she said. “I know you have a very busy schedule.”

“What happened to Don is terrible,” said Arnie. He sat behind his cluttered desk; Dawn could easily imagine him consulting with other doctors or maybe his patients in here. It had the look of a room he spent a lot of time in. “He doesn’t need insurance problems on top of it. Anything I can do to help.”

“Are you close with Mr. Draper?”

“I’d say we’re friends,” Arnie said. “And he helped my kid out of a jam a while back. I owe him one.”

That was nothing like Sylvia Rosen had implied at all. Dawn tried to show no more than mild interest and kept her gestures brisk and professional. She took a pad of paper and a pen out of her bag and wrote a few quick notes in shorthand. “That’s nice to hear. I’m sure he needs all the support he can get right now.”

“He came through the surgery fine - oh, you don’t mean medically.” He shook his head and gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I’m so tired I don’t know which way is up lately.”

“So on the day Mr. Draper was shot -”

“That was what, the Tuesday before last?”

“No, Friday of that week. In the morning.”

“I wasn’t - wait a minute,” he said, frowning. “Why wasn’t I home?”

“Your wife said -”

The phone rang, cutting through the conversation like butter. “I really should get this,” he said. After picking up he leaned forward with one hand wrapped around the receiver to block out the sound. “It could take a few minutes.”

Dawn got up and moved away to give him some privacy, though the office was really too small for it to make any real difference. He had a bulletin board on one wall, covered over with old articles and schedules. There was a picture of him and some other men holding up one of those silly novelty checks. A donation, she supposed. There were newspaper pieces on cardiology - he wasn’t mentioned in all of them. Probably things he found interesting because of his work. The schedule for the current month had come loose in one corner. She pinned it back up.

He’d been at the hospital on Friday morning, just as he had said. And just as Sylvia had said. There was a surgery - she guessed, not being familiar with hospital codes - pencilled in in red. She looked at the Friday after it, and the one before, and before that -

There was a low humming in her ears; or no, that wasn’t right. It was more an absence of sound, blocked out by the roaring of blood through her veins. Her heart sped up and for a moment everything seemed very far away. It all slid into place, all of it; the case, the motive, the shooter. As though someone had dropped the knowledge into her head. She was sure she was right. _Sure_ of it.

From the desk Arnie snapped his fingers. “William Cox,” he said.

Dawn turned around. “Who?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have said that,” he said. “Confidentiality. But I only remembered right now - I was with a patient. That’s why I wasn’t at home.”

“Because you usually are,” she said. Three blank spaces on the calendar. Three wide open mornings.

“My wife told you that, did she?” he asked, looking surprised.

“Yes,” Dawn said. “I only stopped by to double check. Due diligence.”

“I understand,” he said. “They’re running you ragged trying to prove Don shot himself in the shoulder for an insurance scam, are they?”

“Not exactly,” said Dawn. She sat back down in the chair, which was old and creaked under her weight. “Doesn’t it make you nervous, though? Happening in your own neighborhood like that. I almost want to invest in home protection myself these days. This city is going to the dogs.”

“You mean a firearm.” he asked. “Why don’t you?”

“Guns scare me,” she said.

“They shouldn’t,” said Arnie. “Not if you’re careful. When we got ours I had Sylvia take a gun safety course. She’s home alone a lot - I wanted to make sure she was comfortable with it.”

“That’s smart,” said Dawn. “I’ll consider it.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I could sell you some insurance,” she said, brightly.

He laughed. “You wouldn’t be able to lure me away. My policy is great.”

It must be, Dawn thought. It really must be.

 

 

Her fingers stumbled when she dialed the office number from a payphone. Adrenaline had kicked in, she couldn’t help herself.

Joan picked up. “Holloway Investigations -”

“Joan?” Dawn asked. “It’s me.”

“I hope you had better luck than I did,” Joan said. “You were right about her being closed-off. It was like trying to get blood from a stone.”

“You won’t believe it,” said Dawn. “Or maybe you will - okay, look - I’ll explain -”

“Dawn,” said Joan, patiently. “Please calm down. You still need to drive home.”

“I know who did it,” said Dawn. “I know who shot Don. And what’s better - I know _why_.”

 

 

Don Draper moved like a man twenty years older than he was. He eased himself onto the couch gingerly, trying to hold back a wince, while Megan fussed. She brought him a pillow from another part of the room and placed it behind him. Dawn could see bandages poking up from the collar of his loosely buttoned shirt, and his arm was in a sling to stabilize the area. He still looked washed out.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to meet separately about this?” Joan asked.

Megan sat on the arm of the sofa next to her husband. “Anything you have to say to Don you can say in front of me.”

It was, in its own way, a declaration of war. She was done with secrets one way or another. So Dawn didn’t soft-pedal anything.

“Mr. Draper,” she said, meeting his eyes directly, “we know that Sylvia Rosen shot you.”

He didn’t reply but a change came over his face; it was like the fight went out of him. Not quite relief but very close. The sudden relaxation of an animal who understood that struggling was futile.

“Because they were having an affair,” said Megan. Her voice was dull and exhausted.

“They were,” said Dawn. “But that’s not why.”

“It was an accident,” Don said. “She didn’t mean to.”

Megan closed her eyes. When she opened them she looked absolutely furious.

“She did and she didn’t,” said Dawn. “Of course she never meant to hurt you; she had no reason to.”

“She told me she thought there was someone breaking in,” Don said, very quietly. Dawn wondered if on some level he knew that was a lie; if he had known so since Sylvia put a bullet in him that was intended for another man.

“But she wasn’t telling the truth,” said Dawn. “Sylvia Rosen never thought you were breaking into her apartment. She thought you were her husband.”

Megan gasped. One hand flew to her face in shock. “ _Why_? Arnie never hurt a fly.”

“Money,” said Joan. “Those betting slips you found belonged to Mrs. Rosen, not your husband. You were right that he doesn’t gamble. But she does, and she was in debt to some unpleasant types. Arnold Rosen has a very generous life insurance policy - and they have a troubled marriage. Dawn thinks she was going to claim it was an accident, just as she did when she shot Don by mistake. Who knows if that would have worked out in her favor; but it’s likely that was the original plan.”

“You see,” Dawn explained, “Dr. Rosen was supposed to be home that day. He usually worked late on Thursday night and had Friday morning off - I saw his schedule in his office. But one of his patients had an emergency so he was still at the hospital. He must have forgotten to call her, or thought that he would be back earlier than he was. And when Don - well, when he stopped by unexpectedly -”

“She heard your key in the door,” said Joan. “Of course she assumed it was her husband. And you know the rest.”

“The police are dealing with it now,” said Dawn. “We would have liked to come to you first, but we couldn’t wait. Not if someone’s life could be in danger. The police may have some questions for Don.”

“I’ll bet they do,” said Megan. She stood and walked half the length of the room before turning back sharply. Her eyes were blazing. “What is the _matter_ with you.”

“Megan.” Don sighed her name and held a hand out to her, stiffly, in a placating gesture.

“Don’t - _don’t_ ,” she said. “You protected her after - oh my god, Don. You have _children_. She could have killed you. How could you do that to them?”

“Megan,” he said, again, but there was no reaching out this time.

“Stop it,” she said. “I don’t want to hear your excuses - I’m so, so done with your bullshit.” There was a brief moment when her voice cracked, and Dawn thought she might cry. Instead she spun on her heel and charged away from them. She grabbed her keys from the kitchen island as she went.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t be here anymore.”

Witnessing the death of a relationship was a strange thing. There was no tantrum as she walked out the door; she closed it behind her with near silent gravity. Somehow that sounded more final than a slam.

 

 

It was noon at the office formerly named _Holloway Investigations_ , and quiet. The only sounds came from the background; Dawn’s typing, the squeaking of the wheels on Joan’s chair as she rolled it to the window, the scrape of tools against glass. They were having a bit of a lull, but that was nice. And they could afford it. Megan Calvet paid generously - far above the agreed upon fee. She said she’d gotten her freedom back, and that she owed them that much for their part in it. She had also asked Joan to recommend her a divorce lawyer.

“Clouds are blowing in,” Joan mused, looking out the window and sipping a cup of tea. “About time.”

For the first time in weeks a cool breeze was blowing through the open window. Dawn tipped her head back to enjoy it.

When she straightened up there were two silhouettes at the door, barely visible through the frosted glass. One was the man they hired to put her name up next to Joan’s - he was finished with _A_ and had moved on to _M_. _Holloway and Chambers Investigations_. The other person she couldn’t identify. He knocked, whoever he was.

“Come in,” Joan called. She put her teacup down and slid back behind the desk.

The door opened a crack. “I’m not sure if - okay, I was right. This _is_ the place,” Michael Ginsberg said, and stepped inside.

Dawn _maybe_ patted her hair down quickly after a glance at her reflection in the window. She looked okay, she guessed. Her dress was nice enough and she’d put on lipstick that morning.

He came towards her with his hands in his pockets. “So I see you’re moving up in the world. Unless I misunderstood. I do, sometimes.”

“No, I’m official now,” Dawn said. The pride still hadn’t worn off and she found herself grinning. “I have my own business cards, too.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Great, even.” He was visibly nervous, rocking back on his heels with fake nonchalance one second and fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt the next. He couldn’t keep still.

“It’s nice of you to stop by,” Dawn said. She shot Joan a look, hoping for a moment of psychic communication.

It worked. Joan grabbed her purse from the bottom drawer and rose smoothly to her feet. “I’m going to get some cigarettes,” she announced to no one in particular, even though there was a half-full pack sitting in full view on top of the desk. “I’ll be a few minutes.”

She made sure the door was firmly shut as she left, Dawn noted.

“Michael - I can call you that, right?”

“Sure,” he said. “I mean I don’t mind - people who know me -”

“What was it that you -”

They both laughed, wires crossed. “You might as well start. What brings you here?”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay - what I’m here for is - well, when I saw you the other day - you’re very distracting, you know that?”

“Sorry?”

“In a good way. I should start over. What I’m trying to say,” he explained, “is I wanted to do this the last time we met. But it was all wrong, a bad day, so I couldn’t.”

“Do what?” Dawn asked.

“Do you want to go to a baseball game?” he asked. “I don’t like sports much, myself, but maybe you do. And someone gave me tickets, which is convenient. Not that I’m asking you because it’s convenient! We could go - I don’t know, wherever you wanted. The zoo. Or to the movies. Probably the movies, the zoo thing was stupid. Forget about that.”

“Okay,” Dawn said. “I’ll go.”

He blinked. “To the zoo?”

“Or the baseball game. Since you already have tickets.”

“So you do like baseball.”

“Oh, I don’t care about it at all,” she said. “I’m interested in the audience. Put it that way.”

She remembered thinking he had a sad face, back when they first met. But there was no trace of sadness in him now. He was so buoyant he seemed about ready to float away.

“That’s perfect,” he said. “I don’t mean I’m perfect - or that we would be - you know what, I oughta quit while I’m ahead.”

“Let me help with that,” she said, and kissed him before she could talk herself out of it. Her heart pounded to the tips of her fingers.

“I was hoping for that,” he said, after, with a smile that was both self-deprecating and genuinely sweet. “But I didn’t have the guts.”

“Good thing you have me,” she said. Outside there was a distant clap of thunder. Finally, it had started to rain. The dry spell was over.

 

 

 


End file.
